


More Than Words

by collatorsden_archivist



Category: Ashes to Ashes, Life on Mars & Related Fandoms, Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, R/NC-17 - Brown Cortina, Time Period: 1973-1981 (Life on Mars)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-06
Updated: 2008-04-06
Packaged: 2019-01-20 16:48:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12437298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collatorsden_archivist/pseuds/collatorsden_archivist
Summary: The words hid meaning, that much was clear.





	More Than Words

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Janni, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [the Collators' Den](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Collators%27_Den), which was moved to the AO3 to ensure access and longevity for the fanworks. I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in October 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [the Collators' Den collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/collatorsden/profile).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** For the [LJ 1973 Flashfic](http://community.livejournal.com/1973flashfic/) Words Challenge. WARNING: **No** characters were harmed in the making of this fic.

"You never listen to a word I say!" Sam shouted, and raised his hands in a warding gesture; part defiance, part defeat; before turning on his heels and storming out of the office in disgust.

 

 

Gene, shocked out of idle thoughts by that bellowed statement, conceded that it was quite true. Ninety-nine percent of the words that came out of Sam's mouth were bollocks; fancy statements designed to convince the listener and, more importantly, the speaker, that they knew what they were doing. Phrases meant to take the place of pride in your work and trust in your own ability. Gene occasionally wondered whether that kind of conjuring trick was common in Hyde, and what that might mean for the place if it was.

 

 

It was certainly evident in spades in Sam. The little gobshite never stopped talking. But Gene trusted in his own instincts so, instead of listening, Gene watched.

 

 

Take just now, for instance. Sam had been spouting off some crap about genetic codes, whatever they were. Something that wasn't relevant to the case – Gene could see that in Sam's stance, slightly hunched in defeat. Instead of getting out there and thinking about what could help, Sam railed against what he thought of as 'primitive science'. Like a weak man, Sam attacked the inadequacy of his tools, rather than his own inabilities.

 

 

Gene blamed the words, because he knew Sam wasn't a weak man, knew that when he pushed him and pushed him hard, Sam would fight back, put his all into the case, show his true abilities. And then, and only then, did Sam achieve wonders. It was the words, through the spoken form and rote of learning, the words had taken over. 

 

 

In order to do his job well, Gene decided, Sam had to be rendered speechless.

 

 

Anger worked well. Take just now, for instance. Sam had stormed out of the office, incandescent with rage against Gene for not listening, for not bolstering Sam's own ego. Gene would bet a Party Seven that Sam had gone back to his desk and, forgetting his poor excuses for failure, he would start doing that 'box-thinking' he was so fond of. Gene still couldn't work out why resourcefulness was to be considered loony. But Gene was sure that the metaphorical Party Seven would be on his desk within the day, along with the latest case, all solved and ends tied up neatly.

 

 

There were other things that worked just as well. Actions and responses that were less suited to a day in the office, less suited to prying eyes and wagging tongues. Gene's thoughts about those actions and responses were, in part, responsible for Sam's characteristic flouncing just then. Which was a definite bonus in Gene's eyes. Two results for the price of one.

 

 

It was all mind games, after all. 

 

 

That green shirt, sleeves rolled up, had been know to give Sam pause and sometimes just a look in the eyes was enough to make him falter. Make Sam stumble in his explanation to young Chris or his casual flirting with Annie. A quirk of the eyebrow and a brief smouldering gaze. A gaze which held a promise, a contract signed, sealed and delivered in a moment.

 

 

Then words, or rather the tone of delivery. A slight deepening of the voice, a slight huskiness in the throat, slightly lengthened vowels. All led to a helpless look of panic crossing Sam's face. Brief as a cloud across a summer sun, but telling none-the-less.

 

 

Of course, as in anything else there was give and take. The sight of his DI in skin-tight trousers had made Gene's mouth dry up. While the words Sam spoke left Gene cold; the way his body moved and the cadence of his voice when in passionate flow did anything but. Sam's genuine smile, the one he only let out when he was sure that no-one was looking, that sent shivers down his spine.

 

 

Then there were the private entries in the 'shutting Sammy-boy up' stakes. The illicitly snatched kiss, in the lift or in the dark of an alleyway, a quick brush past or a quick feel, grabbing his arse when no-one was looking, running his hands down the length of Sam's body or cupping his erection under the disguise of yet another punch-up.

 

 

A quick hand-job, if time was short, snatched in the Cortina or in a not-so-local pub's toilets. That was guaranteed to put a smile on Sam's face, a dazed look in his eyes and a lazy use of language that was a balm to Gene's ears. Or a blowjob, if time was slightly less short. A fool-proof way of getting Sam to shut up quickly, giving his mouth and tongue and throat something else to do, something that Gene was sure they preferred to do.

 

 

But best of all, top of the list and winner by any number of lengths was Gene's patent method of rendering Sammy-boy incoherent, if not less vocal. It involved the long slow build-up, using all the gazes and voice trickery before progressing to covert kissing and even more covert escorting Sam back to his flat. And there, once there, then any number of the really private entries, leading to the screwing of his DI senseless, perhaps against the wall of his flat, fully clothed and desperate, teeth biting down against Sam's neck, fingers scrabbling against the wallpaper, Sam pushing back, voice begging in a never-ending stream of 'please-please-please-please-please'.

 

 

Or perhaps over the kitchen table, less clothed this time, the light from the streetlamps outside turning Sam's milky skin orange, fingers curled around the table top with knuckles white, attempting to hold on to a resemblance of sanity and failing.

 

 

Or on the rickety cot, the ancient springs complaining bitterly about their punishment more vocally than Sam, who lay stretched out on his back, bent almost in half by Gene's unceasing pounding, for once as silent as the grave as his face became slack and he came in thick pulsing waves.

 

 

Yes, that was definitely Gene's favourite method of removing Sam's over-reliance on words, at least temporarily. But it was definitely not a method suitable for use in the office. Even if Gene's desk did look temptingly strong and was possibly as comfortable as Sam's cot.

 

 

_fin_


End file.
